Introduction:
The final remnants of two Earth Federation Ground Forces Companies of the 4th Army Odessa are regrouped into an ad hoc batallion codenamed 13th Hellhounds. Survivors, Berserkers and Veterans band together as they are thrown into a fire storm of advancing Zeon forces trying to turn the tide after the defeat at Odessa in a final battlecry.

I. Tango 1, Tango 5

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U.C. 0079.11.12; Sunday 10:00 a.m.
Chornepole, Former Ukraine.

Hiss. Thud. Hiss. Thud. Hiss. Thud.

Crushing the muddy earth along with the debris hidden in its dirtied pools a green cyclops scarred from previous night’s battle wandered the graveyard of mobile suits. Parts of the field were still a blaze, fires still burning with a ferocious vibrancy in the distance dancing in the autumn’s winds. Pillars of black smoke rose up into the grey skies like altars to some ancient war god. All of this was watched by the single crimson glowing eye that slid across its frame from side to side.

Passing through the field the head of this metallic beast cast its indifferent gaze on the carnage below. Mutilated, dismembered and unrecognizable scrap metal littered in mass graves. Some were still holding onto their rifles. Others clinging to the broad rectangular shield hoping in vain they’d be spared the storm that had fell upon this place.

Vsst. Scretch. Clunk.

The cyclops planted its foot back and wheeled its torso around to a noise that was not of his own construction. What it saw was just another carcass of a fallen foe. A GM Earth Federation suit. Its affiliation colors mudded and half scrapped from its metal bass. A clear bullet wound that has shattered the side of its face plate. It looked like an undead gasping for life. Cyclops crypt closer. The black fingers tucked into the trigger of its drum-fed machine gun. It looked dead. What was in it must be dead. A suffocating silence followed. The dead foe did not move nor make another noise. A sense of ease came over the machine of war. Zeon therefore must have been victorious last night. The Zaku returned to its battlefield inspection giving the vanquished enemy one last glare.

Vssh. Boom. Crack.

The undead GM suddenly and with the fury of thunder activated what was left of its propulsion in a bright fireball. The wreckage of the Federation suit burst across the brown fields closing the distance between it and the Zaku instantly. The Zeon pilot inside was given no time to react. The GM had risen from the hell just for him. Throwing its arms wide the resurrected foe used its momentum to grapple the Zeon suit to the earth. Together they crashed into field and embedded themselves in a tomb of mud, earth and fuel. The Zaku tried to fire off its gun only to send a couple of rounds into the heavens or into the remnants of the GM’s shoulder armor before its firing arm was pinned by a tattered knee joint.

The zombie GM began to bet the head unit of the Zaku in a maddening animalistic rage. Punch after punch tore off more and more. Until the head unit was a crushed mass of craters and dents. But, the Zaku was not finished. It decided to employ the same trick, the flames of its back pack melted the ground below it slowly fighting the GM’s stranglehold.

“No you don’t bastard!” a voice bellowed in a violent exhale.

Crack. Snap. Bzzrm.

The weak purple glow of a beam saber at its last breathes bathed the two suits in its dying light. Until, the light was buried into the gut of the Zaku. A light for a light. The stunted purple blade consumed the insides of the cockpit in turn striping the Zeon suit of its light, as the forward mon-eye camera faded into a mute pink. The limbs of the dying suit twitched and spasmed as the dark fluids of its fuel compartment bleed into the filth below. Then nothing.

The battered GM rolling back to an upright position with its knee still bent on the rifle arm of the dead Zaku. From inside the suit, the pilot with a venomous look in her eye glared at the symbol emblazoned on the corpse’s shoulder armor. A iron cross with the motto “Ein Reich, Ein Zabi, Ein Land” As she read the motto a curse slithered from her lips and dripped into the open spaces of her cockpit. A deep sigh followed and moving the control sticks her “Jim” stood up along her to recline back into her seat. The red headed pilot wiped a days’ worth of dead skin and sweat from her forehead while adjusting the blue beret that capped her crown. Pausing to rest her hand on the crude black eye-patch that covered an old war wound, she spoke into her headset.

“Takezo! Tango 5 do you read me?” her voice carried over the radio waves in a gargling scattered tone. “I copy Tango 1. You get’em Vicky?” a younger voice called out in an equally distorted audio reply. “Yah. Damn Gihren Ritters from yesterday.” Victoria Blackstead growled before letting out more unmentionable curses of her own ingenuity. Another deep breath and solemn sigh. Her mobile suit responded with a laborious turn and shrieking limp away from the aftermath of her duel with the Gihren Ritter Zaku. Spitting a cough or two she barked at her only surviving team member, “Alright Takezo, move to my point, double-time. Let’s get the hell out of here before the Zeeks decide to send more our way.” A unusually up-beat, “Roger that.” Was laughed out by Takezo.

In the distance a single-armed and crushed upper torso of a second GM belonging to Takezo staggered its way to Vicky’s suit. “Grab that shield and let’s go. You take lead back to HQ. I’ll keep rear watch.” Vicky commanded as she pointed to the remains of GM and its shield. Takezo passed the shield back and moved ahead back into Earth Federation held lines. . Takezo was the youngest in the 9th “JIM” MS Team under Victoria “Vicky” Blackstead’s command. However, unlike their other comrades, they somehow have managed to stick together since the Dover Crossing back in early October. Along the way, as they battled through Eastern Europe, he had come accustomed to Vicky’s rough personality and often brutal methods of command. But, the one thing he knew the most that after a fight, especially after a fight like this one, it’d be best not to say much. For some time the only sounds the either made was from a grunt or wince from their collective wounds.

Vicky herself broke the silence, Takezo exhaling in relief listened in. “How’s that arm?” she muttered. Takezo raised an eye-brow and chuckled, “Which one? The MS or me?” Vicky cracked a smile. Takezo always had a talent for light humor in depressing situations. “You’re arm, yah twat.” Vicky cursed. Takezo titled his head. He had managed to bandage it up last night when they were pinned by a flanking Zaku team. It was all thanks to Girard’s work that he had time to fix up his arm after a Sturm Faust managed bust his GM’s torso armor into scrap. God knows why he had survived and Girard didn’t. Takezo’s good humor and smirk died on his lips at the thought. During the night and this morning when they were hiding and scrapping for their lives the realization hadn’t sunken in yet. They had lost 4 members of their team that night.

Takezo took in a deep gulp. “It’s fine Vicky. Thanks to Girard.” The two became silent. “Li-Listen command-“Takezo’s apology was cut off by Vicky’s malicious interjection, “Shut it Takezo. It wasn’t your fault you got blasted. If it wasn’t you it would have been Girard. Just keep moving.” Takezo lowered his head and clenched his eye lids together. “Those...” was all he could muster.